


don't ever let me ever let you go

by holy_smokes



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Animal death (through hunting), Axel & Five fight, Axel is a sweetheart, Bottom Klaus Hargreeves, Changing Tenses, Consensual Rough Sex, Falling In Love, Klaus's Yurt, M/M, No Apocalypse (Umbrella Academy), Previous Bad Sex (dub con), Sibling Banter, Slut Shaming in a good natured way, minor daddy kink, yes my Viking kink is showing here idc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:01:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26285368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holy_smokes/pseuds/holy_smokes
Summary: The Hargreeves never left the 60s. Klaus escapes to Iceland - and happens to meet a familiar face.
Relationships: Axel & Klaus Hargreeves, Axel/Klaus Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Klaus Hargreeves
Comments: 40
Kudos: 264





	don't ever let me ever let you go

**Author's Note:**

> so, i read an axel/klaus fic (it's the other fic in the tags, so so good) and i just couldn't help myself. i thought instead of pining and whining about wanting more klaxel (?) i should try and write some myself! i almost called this fic '21st century viking' after the song from the epic 'eurovision song contest' movie on netflix (please youtube the song if you haven't seen it, it's one of the best things i've ever seen in my life). also, 1968, wouldn't be the 21stc. anyways. this is super niche and i know it won't gain much attention but that's ok, afterall, fanfic is about writing because *you* love the idea, right?! but if you do read it and enjoy it, i'd love you to let me know. thank you! <3

**

They never got back to the 21st century. People often think loss is a thing of misery, that heavy thought of _I can’t go back_ , but Klaus doesn’t agree. Sometimes you leave a place, or a person, and sure, you’ll reminisce. You’ll remember the broken, buzzing neon lights of your favourite greasy, cheap cafe in a town you can't return to. You'll remember the way that person looked at you. 

But you don’t want to go back.

He didn’t want to go back.

**

Klaus cut his hair the day after they stopped the Cold War apocalypse. Well, actually, Five cut it for him after witnessing Klaus hunched over a mirror and butchering his own curls.

“Jesus Christ, Klaus, you look like an escaped lunatic,” Five had muttered, grabbing scissors off him and clicking his fingers at another sibling for a hairbrush. 

“Aren’t I, though?” Klaus had asked, “aren’t we all?”

Five was much, much better at hair maintenance. He had steady fingers, a side effect of being the world’s most effective assassin, perhaps, and far different to Klaus’s shaky ex-heroin hands. He snipped, chopped and fluffed the top into some form of bounciness. Even Allison looked impressed.

“There,” Five announced, dropping the scissors into Klaus’s hands, “ _joli_.”

They all disguised themselves in one way or another. They’d meet again in 1973 in London, England. That was the plan. Five hacked Daddy’s accounts and funnelled them each a hefty sum of cash. By the time Reginald found out, they had all begun their individual escapes to their agreed new homes.

Diego was to find his way to Culiacán. He hoped to open a lemonade truck and learn Spanish. Allison replaced her wig and would run to Kawartha Lakes in Canada, filling the days with hikes. Luther and Five were set to sail to Europe. Luther daydreamed of working at Berlin Zoo. Five was secretive about his own plans but he had started speaking French during their escape negotiations, for no apparent reason seeing as no one else understood it, so Klaus felt it was quite obvious. It was considered too dangerous for Vanya to reach Russia, but she could hide with Five and Luther before making her way to Poland. 

And Klaus? He had big dreams.

“I’m going to South Africa,” he announced as they made their plans, hidden underground from the wrath of the FBI, “oh, yes. I’m going to see the world!”

Diego argued he should take Klaus with him seeing as Klaus had already travelled Mexico. Five got involved, somehow annoyed by this assertion, pondering that his wayward brother could be useful in dealing with the French mafia -- clearly, he had given up his fantasy of being mysterious at this point.

“Me?” Klaus had exclaimed, determined to enjoy being seen as useful in his sibling’s eyes for once.

“You have that… ‘depressed and desperate’ vibe the French enjoy,” Five mused.

Klaus should have been offended but he was already thinking about Bourdeaux wine and French cheese.

The siblings argued Klaus’s fate more than their own respective ones. 

“I have a yurt,” Klaus interrupted, eventually, “in Iceland. I can stay there.”

He didn’t fancy being alone for five years but his brothers must have got bored of fighting for him during the discussions and so, it was set. Klaus was being bundled to Iceland.

**

Klaus loved Iceland when they happened upon it in the cult years. A place of true beauty, in that true beauty must scare you somewhat. Floating in the Blue Lagoon was unreal, one of those moments that you know you'll miss even as you live it, the fresh salt of the water cleansing the sins from his skin. He adored the Icelandic legends of huldufólk, mischievous and lucky elves, to the point of having álfhól - elf houses - outside his yurt. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, biding his time near the frozen Arctic waters.

He thinks they all made it. No one’s ghost has shown up in his yurt, yet, anyway.

Six months in, Diego sent him a postcard.

_“Enjoying the Vikings? Slut!! Miss ya.”_

Klaus isn’t sure how it made its way to him without getting ripped up by some prudish international postman, but he’s glad it didn't. 

Diego wasn’t exactly wrong, anyway. There is one Viking warming his bed.

**

Klaus had forced himself into town. Force, because he had to wear at least three coats to stay warm, catch a boat, then a bus, then walk to get to the local supermarket. He hates fish but that’s all there is; annoyingly healthy food everywhere. He loaded up his basket to the brim to avoid having to do this again any time soon when the cabbage he had cleverly balanced under his chin falls, smacking a man on the head. Said man was kneeling, inspecting a potato, and Klaus gasped in embarrassment at the scene unfolding in front of him.

“I’m so, so - ” he began, before freezing. Klaus is a flighter and a freezer. He’ll belt it or he’ll shut his eyes and wish it away. He didn’t expect to see a soldier of the Commission kneeling beside him, but what harm could the man do under the fluorescent lighting of an Icelandic supermarket?

The blonde man reached for the aggressive cabbage.

“Your cabbage,” he offered, staring at Klaus with an intensity that unsettled him, before going back to his potatoes. Klaus groaned when he actually took notice of what the man was wearing - bright blue cult clothes.

“Are you… I’m not interested in that anymore,” he whispered, as if anyone was paying them any attention, “I’m not a prophet.”

“Ok,” the man said, finally choosing a worthy potato, not looking at Klaus whatsoever. 

“It’s just, you know, I… I don’t want to be your _leader,_ ” Klaus continued. He winced when the man looked at him, expressionless, feeling naked when the man’s eyes traveled down and back up. Klaus, tiny head poking out of a white faux-fur coat, with two other coats on underneath, leather pants and pointy gold boots. He remembered he was trying on make-up before he left, self conscious as he recalls the way-too-much gold glitter over his eyelids, soft pink lipstick across his lips.

“I don’t think,” the man said, eyes close together, “you could lead me anywhere.”

He stood up, tall, a little taller than Klaus. It wasn’t his height that was so imposing. He was broad and somehow unnerving, even in the weird blue pants and linen top. It was so fucking cold outside, Klaus wondered how he was still alive in such flimsy clothing. It was his eyes that set Klaus on edge mostly - fixed, assessing, unblinking.

“Huh,” Klaus managed, “yeah. Maybe not.”

Klaus felt small under those eyes - still does - in a good, _oh_ , in a really _good_ way.

“You have too much food,” the man said, “I will have to drive you home,” as if he simply had no choice.

“You will,” Klaus agreed, “you’ll just have to.”

**  
  


  
Axel was silent in the car, bar giving his name. Klaus spoke as much as possible before giving up on conversation. The drive was long but at least he wasn’t having to take every mode of transport known to mankind before they arrived at the cosy, isolated yurt.

He was going to ask Axel for help with his bags, but he didn’t need to. The man barged into Klaus’s home with the heavy bags as if he also lived there, emptying the contents and putting them in the wrong bits of the so-called kitchen. Klaus didn’t mind. He sat on the floor, crossed-legged, and watched.

Axel pointed at the lamb.

“Make kjötsupa,” he commanded.

Klaus scrambled to his feet.

“Uh, s-sure,” he smiled, even though he had no fucking idea what that was but he was weak for being told what to do by stern, handsome, muscular men.

“No,” Axel said, and Klaus could have sworn he smiled for a brief second, “for yourself. Sometime. Lamb stew.”

“You’re too thin,” Axel accused, “even under those coats. Your legs are too skinny.”

“Sorry,” Klaus responded, but he wasn’t. 

Axel appraised him yet again. Klaus felt like he was the stranger and this was Axel’s home, especially when the man turned his back to him and began to cook the lamb himself. Klaus had, thankfully, bought an obscene amount of red wine, so after the first ten minutes of watching his new friend he poured them a generous glass each.

“Cheers!” he said enthusiastically, clinking his glass next to Axel’s.

Axel picked it up and knocked it back in one fell swoop.

“ _Skål_ ,” he nodded.

**

Axel never left. Klaus didn’t ask him to. He slept on the tiny sofa, legs hanging off the end (at first, but not for long). They went hunting when Axel discovered Klaus kept a gun under the bed, a gun he forgot one of his followers gifted him many moons ago. Klaus was a guilty meat-eater - he knew the process of what happened so that he could eat his cheeseburger, yet he ate it anyway - and it only got worse after seeing Axel shoot and kill their dinner. He should have felt sick to the stomach and sworn off animal products for life, but watching Axel skin and cook rabbit before making pie as the sun went down made him horny as fuck.

“God, this is so good,” he moaned, shovelling pie in his mouth, “and you fucking _made_ it. You _killed_ this animal and you cooked it for _us_. So - fucking - manly,” he moaned, talking as he chewed.

Axel watched him eat. It was creepy, but he liked it. 

Klaus found an excuse that evening after some glasses of red to move himself from opposite Axel to next to him, both sat on the floor and propped up by the sofa.

“Let me read your palm?” he asked. Axel offered his hand freely. Klaus wondered how old his new friend was, as he was evidently older than Klaus, but still looking _good_ \- it made his Daddy issues tingle, that’s for sure. Klaus couldn’t read palms at all, but he gasped in pretence.

“Why, what a saucy loveline you have, Mr. Axel! Many, _many_ lovers,” he drawled, finger tracing where he assumed the loveline is.

Axel was silent. 

“Nearly as many as me,” Klaus continued, wondering if he looked pretty, fluttering his eyes a little.

“Not as many as you,” Axel replied, finally, tantalisingly close. He smoothed a curl behind Klaus’s ear, making the smaller man wriggle in horny discomfort. Klaus went in for the kill, a kiss, which was returned with soft passion. He couldn’t help himself and lept into Axel’s lap as soon as the man touched his waist. _He could lift and throw me like a plaything_ Klaus thought, wrapping his arms around Axel’s shoulders when the older man broke their kiss.

“Tomorrow, we must go shopping,” Axel informed him, Klaus slightly annoyed _that_ was on his mind as Klaus rocked his tight little ass over his cock, “I can no longer wear these hideous clothes.”

“Mhm,” Klaus agreed, tugging at the shirt, “and in the meantime, you can be naked.”

“Not tonight,” Axel shook his head, solemn in his decision. He took Klaus’s hand and kissed his knuckles softly but it still felt like a rejection -- Klaus had never been rejected in his life. He decided the best course of action was to ignore it, going back to kissing along Axel’s neck, when he was carefully lifted and removed from the man’s lap.

“Wow,” Klaus bitched, “what’s the problem? Can’t get it up?” he asked, eyes flickering down. 

The sass was stolen from him when Axel took him by the chin in a gentle, dominant move.

“I said, not tonight,” he repeated, “you’re sad.”

Klaus giggled, because, _what?_ Firstly, that has never stopped anyone. Hell, he’s been miserable as sin, tearful, and plenty of guys have still fucked him, not bothering to ask if he’s ok. Also, he wasn’t _sad._ He had spent the day eating berries, lying in the woods and watching Axel hunt before lazing around the yurt as he was cooked for. He felt protected and cared for; those are his real drugs of choice, and they’re usually such fleeting experiences that he clings to them whenever he can. 

He didn’t know he was crying until Axel wiped the tears off his cheeks. 

“You’re sad,” Axel said, softer the second time around, grabbing blankets as he swaddled them inside a comfy cocoon. Klaus hiccuped through tears. He so badly wanted to hear from the others, know they made it. They had to have made it, surely? It would be such a waste, if he - the useless, wasteful, least accomplished - sibling survived and they - brilliant, brave, clever - didn’t.

He must have voiced that out loud.

“You’re brave,” Axel said, somewhere, “you're brilliant.”

**

In Finland, it’s a hobby for many Finns to swim in the coldest of waters regardless of season or temperature. Axel tells Klaus this as he’s stripping down in front of the lake, a few feet away from the yurt. Klaus sees bare ass before he hears yelling as Axel throws his body into the freezing waters.

Klaus laughs nervously from the sidelines.

“I can’t do that,” he begs for mercy, but he's also a little excited as it's the first time he’s seen Axel smile properly, hollering as he gets used to the devastating cold.

“Yes, you can!”, Axel shouts, “it's addictive! Come on, Klaus!”

“I’m keeping my underwear on,” Klaus assures him, oddly shy but beginning to relish the challenge as he strips off.

“Take it all off,” Axel grins, and if that wasn’t enough, he winks. Klaus takes his moment when Axel turns and dips underneath. He isn’t sure why he’s uncharacteristically uneasy about getting everything out on show but it doesn’t matter - whipping off his skirt he refuses to think about it, hurtling his body into the water. He screams for what feels like years, on the verge of sobbing as the pain of the cold attacks every inch of skin. He likely would cry before scrambling back to land like a wet, terrified cat if it wasn’t for Axel grabbing his waist and bringing him head under.

“Fuck! Fuck!” Klaus screams as he comes back up, “ _asshole!_ ”

Axel laughs, swimming with ease, “I like it.”

Klaus screams again, more for attention than anything else. The sun is out but there’s no heat and there’s no one for miles except for them. He admires the way Axel looks in the lake, wet and bright, sure of himself as he circles Klaus like he’s prey.

“You look cute,” he tells Klaus, “like a drowned kitty.”

Klaus tries to kick him, only to have his ankle grabbed and he temporarily forgets how uncomfortable he is, giggling when Axel draws him closer. 

“I like cats,” Axel admits, “you’re a bit like a cat, no?”

“Me?” Klaus smiles, shivering now as Axel strokes his thigh. He’s aware they’re both stark naked and he’s wanting to wrap himself around the other man, press up close.

“Yes. You like being fed. You like to play. Nice fur,” he points to Klaus’s wet curls.

“Uh oh, are you a furry?” Klaus groans, going for it, wrapping his legs around Axel’s waist, “I mean, I’ll be a cat, for you, but…”

“What’s a ‘furry’?” Axel asks. It sounds hilarious in his accent. Klaus kisses him rather than replies.

**

Axel doesn’t tell him why he was in cult gear and Klaus never asks. Things are simple with his Swede; the days are spent hunting, swimming or fucking. Occasionally they’ll drive or do the laborious journey into the more civilised parts of Iceland, parts that have running water and TVs, where Axel swigs Gæðingur Lager and keeps a hand on Klaus’s thigh under the table. He’s a little more talkative after a few glugs of ale but even on the days he’s his usual quiet, harsh self, Klaus doesn’t mind. 

Axel is a listener.

That suits Klaus.

He fucks like Klaus would expect him to fuck - hard, rough, unforgiving - but Klaus trusts in it. He’s not a garbage tin for Axel to empty inside of and throw away like last night’s gone off dinner, the way so many men before Axel treated him. He knows, when he’s on his elbows and getting his insides trashed, he'll come so hard he'll sob and after, he’ll be held and kissed and soothed, even as he jokes about how much fucking cum Axel unloads into him. Jesus, the first few times as his body adjusted to Axel’s it was like he leaked cum for _days._

Axel pretends he hates it when Klaus calls him _my Viking_ , but they both know he doesn’t.

**

The last thing Klaus thought he’d see this morning is his naked boyfriend tackling his baby-faced brother. He's rudely awoken to a commotion, Five gaining advantage as he flips Axel and raises a knife, ready to slit the older man’s throat.

“No!” Klaus screams, adjusting to consciousness and equally naked as he yanks Five off his boyfriend.

“No?” Five pants, confused, “this is consensual?”

“Yes, asshole,” Axel grunts, “I may be a murderer but I am not a rapist.”

“Huh,” Five summarises, “oh, hey, brother.”

Klaus scrambles for something to wear, not that Five seems traumatised by the amount of cocks in his eyeline. His brother sighs as he searches the cupboards for a drink, deciding on red wine over beer.

“It’s 8am,” Klaus says, surprised at himself - _Axel was rubbing off on him in more ways than one_ \- “also, it’s 1970. And we are _not_ in London.”

“Indeed,” Five smacks his lips, fiddling in his pocket before finding some cigarettes, “but I was in the area.”

Klaus notices now, as his boyfriend walks in front of them, that Axel found some y-fronts and one of Klaus’s silk pink bathrobes that’s far too small for him. It’s certainly a _choice._ He knows Axel is about to whip up some food, thank God, because Klaus is ravenous; as the smell of eggs and chilli begin to make their way through the yurt, Klaus feels safe again, hit with delight at seeing one of his siblings. Five’s halfway through a story about a contract gone wrong in Saint-Émilion when Klaus pounces, cuddling his severely cuddle-allergic brother.

“I _missed_ you,” he says, faux-crying, “I miss you all so much.”

“Seems like you’re doing ok,” Five offers, accepting his omelette from Axel.

“Is everyone ok? How’s Ally?”

Five will know, if anyone.

“Vanya’s keeping a low profile in Poland, Luther’s with his own kind in Berlin Zoo, Allison’s some kind of lake resort receptionist,” Five speaks quickly, cutting his omelette into perfectly neat squares, “Diego - ”

“ - wrote to me!” Klaus cuts in, excited, “the _only_ one who wrote to me, very disappointing, considering you all _know_ I have a fixed abode.”

Klaus reaches for the postcard and shoves it in Five’s face.

_"Enjoying the Vikings? Slut!! Miss ya.”  
_

“How heartwarming,” Five drawls, reading the message, “looks like he was right, though.”

Axel scoffs, mouthful of eggs.

“Viking, singular,” Axel says, Klaus biting his lip in happiness at him acknowledging it - _one of these days he_ _will_ _get hold of a Viking outfit so they can role play some of his filthiest fantasies_ \- “not a slut. Just for me.”

Klaus blows him a kiss and sticks his tongue out at Five, who scowls slightly.

“It’s a fleeting visit, gentlemen, but, uh, stay happy, right?” Five tells Klaus, jumping up to his feet, “and I’ll see you in 1973.”

Klaus can’t reply because the little shit’s already gone.

“1973?” Axel asks.

“We meet in 1973. In London.”

“You meet in England? Why there? Such an ugly country.”

“My Daddy’s from England,” Klaus pouts, poking his boyfriend with his foot.

“No he isn’t,” Axel smirks, eyes dark as he lowers his upper body downwards so he can kiss Klaus on the knee, “come here.”

Klaus gasps with pleasure at the unexpected Daddy kink and throws his plate aside dramatically, bouncing into the strong, safe arms of his second - _never second best -_ love.


End file.
